Chapter 1

The world tilted, then fell away.

One moment I was on the ladder, adjusting the lighting for the new exhibit, the next, a sharp, metallic snap echoed in the vast emptiness of the gallery. I twisted in the air, a useless attempt to control the fall, my hands grasping at nothing. The polished marble floor rushed up to meet me.

A sickening crack. Then, darkness.

Flickers of awareness returned in waves, each one a tide of pain. I was in a hospital room, the rhythmic beeping of machines a constant, irritating song. A heavy weight pressed down on my chest, a strange, mechanical ticking sound coming from within me. I tried to move my legs, but there was nothing there. Just a vast, terrifying emptiness under the thin white sheet.

Panic clawed at my throat.

Then I heard his voice, my fiancé Mark' s voice, low and urgent, just outside the slightly ajar door.

"Is it done, Mr. Henderson? Is everything taken care of?"

"Yes, Mr. Thompson," another voice, gravelly and cold, replied. I recognized it as the gallery owner. "The ladder was tampered with, just as you instructed. The security footage from that wing has been... misplaced. It was a tragic accident. No one will suspect a thing."

"And her collection?" Mark' s voice was stripped of all the warmth I thought I knew. It was pure, cold steel. "The insurance will cover her medical bills, but her private collection is the real prize. My gallery needs it to survive."

"It's yours. As per the agreement we discussed, her incapacitation grants you full control," Henderson said. "And the scholarship for your little protégé, Emily? My donation will secure her place. Consider it a bonus for our... successful collaboration."

My breath hitched. The beeping of the heart monitor next to me sped up, a frantic, shrill protest.

"And her... condition?" Mark asked.

"The legs were unsalvageable," a third voice, the doctor's, said clinically. "The damage to her heart was severe. We had to implant the synthetic unit. She'll live, but she'll never walk again. And that heart... it will require constant, expensive maintenance. She's completely dependent."

A cold laugh from Mark. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect."

The world swam in a haze of white and gray. The voices faded, replaced by the thumping, unnatural beat inside my own chest. A machine. I had a machine for a heart. My legs were gone. My art, my life's passion and work, was stolen. And the man I loved, the man I was going to marry, the father of the child growing inside me, had orchestrated it all. For money. For his gallery. For another woman's career.

The pain from my body was immense, a raging fire. But it was nothing compared to the cold, dead void that opened up inside me.

The surgery was over. I was awake. I could feel the stiff hospital sheets against my skin and the hollow space where my legs used to be. The rhythmic tick-tock from my chest was a constant reminder. Tick. Tock. A clock counting down a life I no longer wanted. My hand instinctively went to my stomach, flat and soft. A tiny life, a secret I had planned to share with Mark tonight, a celebration of our future. Our future was a lie.

A nurse came in, her smile bright and forced. "Feeling any better, Sarah? We need to talk about your prenatal care. Given your new condition, there are some extra precautions we'll need to take."

I stared at the ceiling, at a water stain that looked like a screaming face. The ticking in my chest was the only sound I could focus on.

"There's no need," I said, my voice a dry rasp.

The nurse looked confused. "I'm sorry?"

"Cancel it," I said, my words flat and empty. "I want to schedule an abortion."

Her cheerful expression fell, replaced by a practiced, gentle pity. "Sarah, this is a big decision. Maybe you should discuss it with your fiancé. He's been so worried..."

"There is nothing to discuss," I said, turning my head to face the wall. "Schedule the procedure."

I felt a single, hot tear escape and trace a path down my temple, but I didn't wipe it away. It was the last tear I would shed for the life I had lost. The life he had taken from me.

Later, drifting in and out of a morphine-induced haze, I heard Mark's voice again. This time he was in the room, talking on the phone, his voice a low, soothing murmur meant to sound like he was comforting me.

"Yes, she's resting," he said. "It's a terrible tragedy... She fell... The doctors did everything they could... Yes, her heart... a miracle of modern science, they say."

He paused, listening.

"The collection? Of course, I'll take care of it. It's what she would want. I have to keep her legacy alive. It's the least I can do."

A lie. Every word a carefully crafted performance for whoever was on the other end of the line. He was standing right there, next to the bed where I lay broken, and spinning a tale of his love and devotion. The irony was so bitter it tasted like acid in my mouth. My legacy. He was stealing my legacy and calling it preservation.

I closed my eyes, feigning sleep. The man I had loved was a monster. He had loved my art, my connections, my reputation. He had never loved me. He saw me as a collection of valuable assets, and when my body became an inconvenience, he had it dismantled, piece by piece, just like one would strip a painting from its frame. I had been so blind, so wrapped up in the beautiful fantasy he had painted for us. Now, all I could see was the ugly, rotten canvas underneath.